


Meanwhile, In South Downs...

by QueenOfGol



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bickering, Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), DEFINITE autistic Aziraphale vibes, Domestic Fluff, Dreams and Nightmares, I'll add more tags and change the rating when I know what the hell I'm doing, M/M, Married Life, Other, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Sexual Content, Slice of Life, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Somewhat graphic injury, graphic death of bug?, neil gave me the right to use as many adverbs as I want
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:55:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26408344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfGol/pseuds/QueenOfGol
Summary: It had gone as romantically as expected; Crowley had moved six of his earthly possessions into the bookshop, and the other remaining six into that fabled cottage in South Downs, (an ideal place for both a demonic infestation and a riverside view over an English breakfast.)____Aziraphale and Crowley have done the whole apocalypse thing, the whole pining thing, the whole confession thing, and have now moved on to the whole domestic bliss thing. It goes just about as well as you'd imagine it to.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 45





	1. Sister Spider

It had gone as romantically as expected; Crowley had moved six of his earthly possessions into the bookshop, and the other remaining six into that fabled cottage in South Downs, (an ideal place for both a demonic infestation and a riverside view over an English breakfast.) When the weather was accommodating, he and Aziraphale would go out together for strolls and picnics and to restaurants with little outdoor patios, and when the weather was not, they would come up with creative ways to pass the time indoors.

Today was one of the latter, a chilly afternoon, even for October, with little spittles of bitter rain passing through at unpredictable intervals to aggravate the leak in the attic and to make a walk into town too risky. Instead, Crowley spent his time hanging upside down off the arm of the couch and scrolling through his phone as Aziraphale swept the furniture around him with a feather duster. It was funny, not even once had Crowley ever seen him try to make the bookshop less dusty. In fact, he was fairly certain that the angel stole dust-bunnies from other places to decorate with. But here at the cottage, cleaning days cropped up at least twice a week.

“Darling,” said Aziraphale, brushing Crowley’s chin with the feather duster, making him sputter and slap it away. “Oops! My apologies, dear. I was just going to ask if you wanted me to make pumpkin pie or cheesecake once I’m done with the tidying up.”

Crowley wiped the smear of charcoal-colored grime from his jaw and frowned at how it clung to his fingertips. “Eck.”

“Well?” the angel pressed. “Do you have a preference?”

“Hm? Oh. Um. The pie, definitely,” answered Crowley distractedly, scrubbing his smudged fingers into the tweed upholstery of the couch.

“Yes, that’s what I figured. And  _ do  _ sit up proper before you crack your spine. I doubt Hell would be so willing to replace your corporation anytime soon.” Aziraphale swatted him with the duster again, on purpose this time, and padded off to the kitchen. Crowley pulled a mocking face but did as he‘d been asked.

No more than a minute later did he hear the distinctive yelp that Aziraphale made when startled, (like a ghost on a rollercoaster, that was the sound.) He cried out Crowley’s name twice, begging him to come quick.

At once, Crowley barged into the kitchen, wild-eyed and vintage lamp in hand. It was a decent lamp, its porcelain base delicately sculpted into the shape of a nude cherub, palm outstretched as though it were holding the lightbulb. He’d gotten it for Aziraphale as an early Christmas gift one year in the 1950’s and was secretly quite tickled that the angel had chosen it above all others of the bookshop’s extensive collection of unfashionable lamps to furnish their living room with. But now, it was being given a new purpose, for it was as good a weapon Crowley could find on such short notice.

“What?! What is it?!” he barked, wielding his lamp and frantically glancing around for any hint of purple smoke or a particularly suspicious fly. When he saw nothing of the sort, he turned his incredulous stare to Aziraphale. “I don’t see anything, angel.”

“Well what’s  _ that _ then?” Aziraphale scoffed, pointing over to the sink. At first, there did not seem to be anything amiss. There were no dirty dishes, the knobs were sparklingly clean, and the entire fixture looked to be in one piece. Crowley didn’t understand. 

And then, something moved.

It was leather brown and about the size of a poker chip. Its giant round bottom wobbled as it crept across their dish wand on eight spindly legs.

“Satan’s sake, Aziraphale,” he groaned, letting the lamp plunk gently to the tile. It wouldn’t dare break. “You can’t give me a turn like that over a stupid spider.”

“Oh, but just look at it! It’s the most ghastly specimen in England.”

“And whatever happened to what you were always telling that little boy?” Crowley raised a brow at him. “I thought all of God’s earthly creatures were supposed to be worthy of an angel’s love.”

Aziraphale’s lips thinned. “I will love it,” he said, clipped, “once it is  _ out _ of my kitchen.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and stalked over to the paper towel holder, the one with the adorable apple-shaped stopper on top, and ripped himself off a generous sheet. He then turned to the sink in order to chase the ugly devil with the corner of the towel until it scrambled onto a proper surface flat enough to be squished against. “Gotcha,” he hissed as it reached the windowsill. It made a nauseating crunch as it died.

Aziraphale’s gasp was sharp and injured behind him. “I never told you to kill it, Crowley!”

“Whaaaat?” Crowley drawled, wadding up the last of the slime and legs into the paper towel. “What did you bother calling me in for then?”

“To help me catch the poor thing in a cup to release outside,” snapped Aziraphale. His pale eyes had gone to steel and his hands were practically in fists.

“And turn Sister Spider out?” teased Crowley back. “In this weather?”

That was the wrong move. Right before his eyes, he saw the angel’s face harden from an expression of boiling annoyance to a cool, blank sort of indifference which he was all too familiar with. It was the look that meant that Aziraphale was absolutely, positively, certifiably done. His pretty little nose tilted up into the air and he ran Crowley through with one last deadly glare, a glare that stated very clearly, in no uncertain terms:  _ you fucked up, and I’m not speaking one civil word to you until you fix it. _

Aziraphale grabbed the lamp from the floor and whirled briskly away like a leaf caught on a breeze. Crowley slouched onto the countertop, unsure if he should be feeling more guilty or exasperated with it all. From another room, he began to hear soft, melancholy violin music crooning from a gramophone, followed by the squeaking sound of a rag scrubbing against a window rather aggressively. He immediately decided that the guilt was winning by just a hair.

He huffed a noisy breath through pouting lips and frowned at the dead fruit flies congealing in the ceiling light for a long moment. The wad of gooey paper towel was starting to grow heavy in his palm, sealing his villainy just as thoroughly as if it were a knife stained with angel blood- an absurd analogy given the situation, but a painful one nonetheless. 

With an reluctant wave of his free hand, a burst of black magic (which he really ought not to have been using for such a ridiculous purpose) peeled the pulverized remains of the spider up into levitation and reassembled it piece by crumpled piece. It landed back on the towel, took a moment to regroup, then began to plod its merry way up Crowley’s wrist. It was as alive and ugly as ever, if a pinch more evil- but hey, a demon was always in need of infernal little helpers.

“Out,” he snarled as he punched the kitchen window open and deposited the creature into the chilly afternoon rain. “And you _ stay  _ out, unless you’d like to die more permanently next time.” And he cranked the window shut in the spider’s bewildered face.

Crowley discovered Aziraphale scouring every single glass surface to be found in the parlor with a dustrag. He did not bother glancing up from his task until the gramophone suddenly began to skip, (another demonic miracle, but who was counting?) 

“How can I help you, Crowley?” asked the angel, cold and polite, like he were no more than a pesky bookshop customer.

“Wanna show you something. C’mere,” he replied, beckoning Aziraphale with a full-bodied tilting gesture toward the kitchen. He heard the needle lift from the stuttering record and smiled as Aziraphale’s delicate footsteps approached from behind. 

“What is it?”

“Not what, angel.  _ Who.” _ Crowley pointed at the window, where a big brown spider was continuing to stand, stunned as deer in headlights, on the outer ledge. “Why, isn’t that our old friend, Sister Spider?”

At first, Aziraphale fought the grin that was threatening to twitch over his lips, but the joy just seemed far too bright to contain, and it crested over his face like the glorious break of dawn. “Yes,” he said merrily. "Yes, I believe it is. And she's looking quite well, all things considered.”

“Aww, it’s so cold out there for her though.” Crowley slid his arm over the angel’s shoulders. “It's a pity. Perhaps we should be good hosts and let her in.”

“That’s quite enough, Crowley,” Aziraphale warned, but regardless, kissed him heartily on the lips. “Now, where did I put my measuring cups?”


	2. Better Than Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is very invested in learning about yeast. Crowley is very invested in something else. (NSFW)

He only did his taxes with a special fountain pen, and on laundry day, he made certain that every article of his clothing was cleaned in specie and iron-pressed from collar to sock. These were just a few of the practices Aziraphale had taken up over the millennia to keep himself from going absolutely deranged, and it had been working out pretty well for him so far, more or less. His mind needed stimulation, and lots of it. Hardly his fault, really. It was just how She designed him.

Because of this, (or perhaps in spite of it,) Aziraphale had subsequently formed an admirable habit of studying the things which he did not easily understand; Botany. Music theory. The feeding behaviors of the blue-footed booby. No matter what the subject matter, if it confused him, the angel would make an effort to study it - or at least he planned to, once he could find the time. And that was not so easy when one was a dutiful spouse, Earth’s sole guardian angel, and a part-time shopkeeper to boot. Yes, time did often slip away from him, so he usually ended up having to squeeze his studying in between odd hours.

This morning, he was putting a fat red line through the words  _ functionality of yeast _ , which he’d written in his journal sometime around 1912 and had not thought about since. Until now, of course. Learning to bake had centered the question back on his mind, and there were fifty-three minutes still left on the timer before the tart was done, so he figured he might as well make use of them.

Crowley helped him pull up a program about it on the ‘Youtubes,’ (a subject also on his list,) and Aziraphale happily tucked into the loveseat with one of those absurdly thin computers balancing on the armrest, prepared to take notes. 

When Crowley tucked in right along beside him, Aziraphale felt a vague sense of surprise somewhere in the backseat of his mind, where all thoughts that weren’t about yeast had been banished to until further notice. His dear fellow was never one for educational documentaries. In fact, he distinctly recalled a time when he tried inviting Crowley over to watch one, and had gotten the reply: “if I wanted to be bored out of my wits so desperately, I’d just go to Ohio.” But it was no matter. He would never object to sharing his hobby with Crowley if he was going to be so willing these days.

A proud and practiced ambidextrous, Aziraphale could write competently with each hand, or even perform two different tasks at the same time, given he’d remembered to set his corporation with the correct amount of arms. Today, he thought it best to hold his pen in the right hand, and to caress Crowley’s knuckles with the left. Cool and hard, if a tad fuzzy, the hills and valleys of his husband’s every joint made an excellent pastime. Crowley must have felt similarly, because every now and again as he spaced out his bullet points, Aziraphale would feel his own knuckles being lifted to Crowley’s lips. 

Sometime through video number three, Aziraphale’s palm got flipped upward, and a cold, bony fingertip began to faintly trace over its countless creases and scars. It tickled.

“Your hands are ice.”

“Well let me warm them, then!” Crowley cried, wriggling nearer and diving five fingers under Aziraphale’s cable knit sweater. They were so chilly it made the angel gasp. “Selfish of you to hog all that mammalian body heat for yourself anyway.”

“Don’t punish  _ me  _ for it. I wasn’t the one who turned you snakish, you dreadful thing.”

“Can’t fool me, angel,” replied Crowley, his voice so very much closer than before. “You  _ love  _ my ssssnake-ish-nesssss.” A serpent tongue fluttered out against Aziraphale’s jaw like a moth’s wing, then moved to drag along the hollow just beneath, slower. Those slender fingers still burrowed under the hem of his sweater seemed to thaw some as they began massaging little figure eights into his skin.

“Oh, that feels lovely, d-”

_ “-at is why it is fundamental for the yeast to have a sugar meal before they are incorporated into the-” _

“Drat! I almost didn’t catch that last part.” Aziraphale straightened up, repositioning his notebook, and began to pat around the cushions. “Where did that pen tarry off to?”

Crowley sighed noisily and deflated against the angel’s side.

______

An hour passed and the peach tart had been laid on the windowsill to cool. It made the whole house smell like brown sugar and, usually, a temptation like that would prove very difficult to resist, but Aziraphale remained in his nest on the sofa. He was on his fifth video about yeast now, and was still gathering new, fascinating little tidbits to jot down.

  * _Yeast cells are only visible to the naked eye in colonies of a million or more_


  * _Some species cause intestinal disease in mammals_


  * _Can produce 600 different flavor-altering compounds_


  * _Sentient?_



Crowley had, remarkably, not yet abandoned his side. 

He watched every video with exceptional composure; never interrupting, never griping, only throwing the odd quip or question out every once in a while. He did fidget a lot, however; stretching and shrinking himself out into different shapes, sometimes tilting near, or away, or using the coffee table as a something to lean on. His clothes got fiddled with as well. He’d flung his black jacket and vest over the back of the couch and unbuttoned his undershirt (which did not previously have buttons) nearly down to the navel, as if the mid-October air was suddenly stifling him. 

Well, Crowley had always been one to wriggle and shift around, Aziraphale thought. He supposed it all came with being a slinky, coldblooded serpent, and ergo thought it best to be polite and pay the odd behavior little mind.

“Hey, angel,” Crowley murmured at one point, nudging Aziraphale’s arm. From the corner of his eye, the angel could see him stroking his own chest hair. “’Member that time in the 90’s when we were at that shit inn? And you were busy taking notes on something or other just like you are now?”

“Ah. Somewhat,” replied the angel inattentively, glancing back to the screen.

“Now, what was it that you were studying that time? Can’t quite recall.”

“…you said something, dear?”

“I asked if you remembered what you were watching at the hotel.”

“Oh. It was pornography, I believe,” he stated blandly, as if remarking on the weather. “I found it very perplexing at the time.”

“At the time,” repeated Crowley. The angel felt a light squeeze on his thigh. “We’ve learned quite a lot together since then, haven’t we.”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale frowned, his gaze unmoved from the laptop screen, as he was finding the sped-up video of rising dough rather appetizing. “But I have yet to grasp why they always insist on including such absurd plots. Or filming it from those artless angles.”

“Oh, greasy stuff, most of it,” Crowley agreed, inching closer. “If I didn’t know the humans came up with it themselves, I would say they were one of mine, those porno flicks.” He gently wormed himself into the gap between the angel’s arm and chest as he spoke. “But at least they showed you a thing or two, eh?”

“Hm.” Aziraphale adjusted to their new position so that his arm would not soon fall asleep under his husband’s weight, slight as it may have been. 

A long, tender kiss landed on his throat. Then another, on his cheek. The page he was writing on began to slide away, and he realized that Crowley was gently pushing the journal aside to make room for his groping hand to knead his thigh. And there was  _ love.  _ Bright little flashes of love twinkled at the edges of the angel’s celestial senses with each of Crowley’s touches. 

“My,” he said warmly, “aren’t you affectionate today.” 

“Mm, you’ve finally noticed, have you?” Crowley sighed, reaching for Aziraphale’s upturned palm and softly placing it face down into the denim cradle of his lap. Beneath the angel’s touch there was heat- so much unexpected heat- and an unmistakable _ twitch. _

He paused the video with a single thought and hurled Crowley a wide-eyed stare. “My love,” he said, voice reedy from astonishment, “are you trying to tell me something?”

“Yah. Have been for a while now, actually,” Crowley replied, a smidge of cheek coloring his voice. “Almost emptied my whole bag of tricks.” And he stretched himself out long like an arching cat, really making use of those extra vertebrae he allegedly had, his hips lifting higher into Aziraphale’s touch. A delectable hiss sucked in through Crowley’s teeth when Aziraphale decided to take pity and pet him through his trousers.

“I-I-I mustn’t have realized,” confessed the angel, a twinge of embarrassment creeping under his collar. He gave Crowley an apologetic swipe with his thumb. “I  _ have _ been told before that I can be a tad-”

_ “Hrmmmm, _ fantastically oblivious?”

“Easily diverted,” he corrected sternly.

_ “Angel,” _ Crowley scoffed. “I was about two minutes away from standing naked on the coffee table. With a neon sign.”

Aziraphale knew that if he objected, his embarrassment over the whole matter would only last that much longer. “... and just what would that sign have said?” he asked instead.

Crowley smirked a positively devilish smirk as he thought it out.  _ “Please Sit On This.”  _ He gestured the placement of each word in the air. “With a tiny arrow pointing down.”

“Fiend!”

“Naaah, I’m just kidding,” Crowley drawled, smooshing a kiss against Aziraphale’s temple. “Would you want to, though? I could make it romantic if you like. Get out the ol’ rose petals and champagne. We could  _ make love.”  _ He put on a high, posh little voice for those last two words, effectively mocking Aziraphale’s vernacular.

“Oh, really?” the angel beamed, delighted at the very prospect.

“’Course,” promised Crowley, his eyes soft-boiled and gilded with sincerity. “Anything for my angel.”

Aziraphale could no longer help himself. He took hold of that wicked chin of Crowley’s and kissed him within an inch of his life.

The laptop fell off the couch and cracked, but neither of them noticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't usually write any porny-ish things but it just felt right today lol.


	3. That Flesh Is Heir To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gets himself into a spot of trouble, and Crowley has his scheduled freakout over it. TW: Fairly graphic description of an injury, and some birds get jostled but not hurt.

To be or not to be, that was the question. As Aziraphale lay strewn in the unclipped bentgrass, watching the dew drops bobbing on the ends, he pondered that very idea. Usually, a question like that would hardly cross his mind. He was functionally immortal, afterall, so there really wasn’t any need for him to dwell on such morbidity, unless under dire circumstances; like facing a pillar of hellfire, or standing forty yards from the devil himself. 

Or rescuing a nest full of baby birds from a splintering branch, apparently.

It was rather embarrassing, really. He’d seen the poor dears swinging there on that low, broken birch branch in the wind while gathering scallions from the yard and, not wanting to waste a miracle over something so easy, figured he could lend a hand to them the human way before their mother returned to witness such a frightening scene. It did not go well.

Aziraphale peered down at where the limb had run him through. It was sticking out almost comically from the vulnerable spot just below his sternum in a bloom of gore and gold, and the sight of it sent a rush of woozy heat right to his temples.

“Oh,  _ ffff-  _ oh,  _ bother,”  _ he moaned quietly, his head thumping back down onto the cool damp earth below. He lifted a quivering hand as high as he could reach and snapped his fingers twice, (or at least he thought he was snapping them. They were a bit too numb to tell for certain,) as he willed the branch to disappear, the injury to heal.

Nothing happened.

He still had powers. He must’ve. He could sense them lingering there, just beyond his reach. He could smell the faint fume of ozone that accompanied each miracle seeping out from his fingertips and could feel the electric fizz of divinity in the air. But he just couldn’t manage to  _ focus.  _

Dark green rings shimmered in his vision and, somewhere at the right of his face, a choir of tiny, distressed chirps were gifting him a morsel of peace. The chicks may have been alarmed, but they were safe. He’d taken the brunt of the falling branch in their stead. When Crowley found them he would tuck them back into their tree, and hopefully set them on a sturdier branch this time.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed, the thought of his husband distracting him some from the pain. He prayed directly to God, asking Her most politely if she could perhaps spare Crowley from discovering him like this. He would hate to give his dear fellow such an atrocious surprise upon returning home. 

_ And please, O merciful Lord,  _ he begged of Her,  _ if he should try to retrieve me Upstairs, don’t let him get hurt in the process. We both know he can get a tad theatrical with things, but please, keep him safe. _

By the time his prayer concluded, Aziraphale found that his eyelids had grown extraordinarily heavy, and then, he was finding himself too far gone to take notice of such things.

__________

The Bentley rattled its way up the narrow, winding driveway, a chorus of  _ ohh, you’re my best friend _ spilling from the open windows. Crowley sometimes liked to park right in front of the mailbox because making life difficult for the postman was always a treat, but today he was feeling generous towards the poor chap. He’d caused more than enough mischief in town as it was; stealing a traffic light, putting up flyers for a party at a nonexistent address, and convincing the managers at two rival coffee shops that customers always preferred the places that put their Christmas decorations out the earliest. Yes, Crowley had done such a bang-up job today that adding another misery to the list would just be overkill at this point. Besides, he didn’t want to get too out of ratio with Aziraphale. 

Crowley scooped a drink tray up from where he’d placed it on the passenger side seat. In one of the holders was a half-drunk black coffee with a pinch of cinnamon in a styrofoam cup, the name  _ Anthony  _ scrawled on the lid, and in the other, a giant frozen caramel monstrosity designated  _ Angel  _ with a little heart doodled next to the name. Sure, the caf é  would be Christmas-themed come August, but that didn’t mean that their coffee wasn’t worth a try. 

The daisies lining the walkway kissed his shoes obediently as he stalked to the porch just like he’d taught them to do as buds, and he was most pleased. Truly, the day could not have been going better.

Once the front door closed behind him, Crowley felt a chill. The house was colder inside than it was out, and that was odd. On a brisk spring day like this, Aziraphale usually put a couple logs in the wood stove, (or at very least left the oven open after whatever dessert he’d been baking was done.) But there was nothing to suggest that was the case. The kitchen light was off and when he scented the air, Crowley caught no fresh traces of sugar or cedar smoke. He also caught no fresh traces of angel for that matter. 

“’Ziraphale?” he called, wiping his shoes on the floral doormat. No answer came, not even in the form of muffled footsteps or distracted humming. He frowned. “Angel?”

He carried the drink tray from room to room, up the stairs and back down again, into the wine cellar and then out to the patio. The whipped cream was beginning to melt from the angel’s drink and ruin the pretty caramel drizzle on top. Nothing a drop of magic couldn’t fix, but it was the principal of the thing that was irritating him. Aziraphale should have been _home_ to drink it, and the fact that he mysteriously wasn’t was making Crowley’s stomach ache.

As he stewed on the patio, a damp breeze sailed through the yard, shaking dew drops from the table umbrella onto his cheek and tousling his already perfectly-imperfect hair. He was just lifting his free hand up to re-ruin it the way he liked when a peculiar odor hit his tongue. Sweet and boozy, supernaturally clean on the air, it almost smelled like-

“AZIRAPHALE!” he shrieked, hot and cold coffee splattering against his shirt. He galloped though the mess of cups without thought, rocketing off in the direction of where the reek of angel blood was emanating from. Fear made the yard seem to twist and turn like a maze, made it seem to go on for miles and miles, (though it was little more than an acre altogether,) until there, beneath a silver birch that arched over their neighbor’s fence, he saw a very familiar pair of brown and tan oxfords poking out from the grass.

Crowley collapsed to his knees at his husband’s side. His own breath was coming in such loud wheezes it was impossible to hear if Aziraphale was breathing at all. The enormous fucking branch skewering his middle like an angel-kabab suggested  _ not. _

“Aziraphale,” he choked, scared to touch anything that wasn’t Aziraphale’s face. His stiff, gray face. His colorless lips. His bruised eyelids and bleeding nose. “C’mon, you idiot! Let’s get you up!” He slapped at his cheeks. “UP!”

Aziraphale didn’t stir. Beneath his shivery thumbs, now petting softly and apologetically at the bloodless flesh of the angel’s sweet temples, Crowley felt the faintest warmth, the faintest flicker of life.

He knew what he had to do.

Crowley screwed his eyes shut tight, unable to watch as he wished away the tree limb that impaled his angel. Hearing it vanish in a wet squelch was more than enough. He could feel heat magnifying to blistering grades inside his eyes. His irises must’ve been the size of the moon with stress, practically bleeding out of their sockets. He didn’t want Aziraphale to see him like this when he came to.  _ If _ he… 

Crowley wrenched his eyelids back open and glared down at the gaping wound in his angel; the glistening, spine-deep crater. The sight made him angry, violently angry, and that was good. He got shit done when he was angry, and he really, really needed to get shit done. Those great wankers Upstairs would never give Aziraphale back without a fight- a fight he was very unlikely to win- and the prospect of never seeing his angel again was stoking the flame.

_ They’ll keep him locked up, _ he thought, feeling a swell of black magic rise to his fingertips.  _ They’ll try to burn him again. He’ll have to face  _ **_Gabriel-_ **

He threw his palms flat over the hole oozing with gold mucus from Aziraphale’s tummy. (That sweet, soft tummy. The tummy Crowley held and kissed when they made love, and always kept full of good food. The one Aziraphale tugged his waistcoat over every time he stood from his armchair.) Crowley’s teeth grew long and poisonous in his mouth. He was ferocious. _ Demonic. _

“Come on!” he snarled. “Heal, you bastard!”

Bile rose in his throat as the slimy flesh beneath his touch began to spasm and weep. He remembered the stench of burning paper, the froth of water evaporating off of his skin. It made the backs of his arms and knuckles sprout clusters of glistening black shapes. At this point, Crowley didn’t give a flying fuck if he tore himself asunder, ruined his own corporation, or killed himself twice over. Aziraphale would  _ heal. _

The miracle concluded with a silvery zap. He toppled hard onto his backside, panting like a bull. Through the tear in Aziraphale’s sweater, he could see the smooth, baby-pinkness of new skin- and thank  _ somebody, _ it was rising and falling with breath. Crowley crawled back over to him and shook him roughly by the shoulder.

“Angel. Angel!”

He still didn’t stir. But his corporation was breathing. That was a start.

“Alright, angel. Alright. We can work with this. We can work with this.” Crowley repeated this mantra over and over again, sometimes in his head and sometimes aloud as he prepared to haul Aziraphale’s limp body from here in the frozen mud to the warm, cozy burrow of their bedroom. Only then, with the mantra on his mind, had he calmed himself enough to hear it.

The peeping.

Crowley scanned the ground until he found the source of it; a straw nest hardly the size of a tea plate, nearly overflowing with wide-mouthed baby chicks. It lay askew against a rock, less than a centimeter from Aziraphale’s curled fingertips.

The entire synopsis of what had befallen Aziraphale dawned on Crowley at once. 

Only Aziraphale was absurd enough to die from rescuing birds.

“You have got to be kidding me, you utter tit!” he growled through his teeth, pulling at his own hair. 

Putting the birds back into their tree took only half a thought, but they continued to cry out for attention even once they were where they belonged. Something about that made him want to yank the nest back out and leave it on the ground to teach them a lesson about gratitude, but he had bigger fish to fry. 

“Alright, my darling imbecile,” he whispered upon deaf ears. “Let’s get you up to bed.”

________

Aziraphale awoke in a bundle of soft fleece. There was a mug of something with too much cinnamon in it steaming on the nightstand, and Crowley’s newfangled digital clock said  _ 11:11 P.M. _ beside it. The lamp was off, but the ceiling light from the hallway was not and its mellow glow spilled in from the open door, casting everything around him in an orange resin.

This included Crowley, who sat like a gargoyle in an armchair at the foot of the bed. The left side of his face was a shadow, and the right was etched with harsh lines in amber. Freckles of sweat glinted on his sunken brow and his jaw was set in a displeased underbite. He sat up a little when he caught Aziraphale’s eye.

_ “Weellllll,” _ he broke the silence, his voice snide and cruel. “Look who finally decided to rejoin society.” And he stood jerkily from his chair, stumbling hard into the wall.

“You,” said Aziraphale, throwing a pointed glance at the empty, square bottle dangling by the neck from Crowley’s hand, “are drunk.”

“Pssssh,” Crowley slurred, falling onto a precarious new seat atop the vanity shelf. He was leering at Aziraphale in a way that made him feel like he was about to be pounced on. “And s’what if I am? Kept me from doing something worse, dinnit?”

“Oh, my head,” Aziraphale griped as he sat up out of the cocoon of blankets he’d apparently been swaddled in. He glanced down at himself, noticing most gratefully that his body looked to be in one piece, albeit covered in a giant, hideous graphic tee-shirt that read _I Want My MTV_ across the chest. He frowned. “I’m assuming my poor sweater was beyond saving, then.”

Crowley’s mouth fell open, head knocking back into the mirror. “I sit here,” he said. “All day. All night. Not knowing if you’ll ever  _ ever  _ wake up again. Not knowing if I hafta go up an’ get you, or- or stick it out down here, or  _ fuckall,” _ And his leer grew wider and even more unnerving than before, “and you’re going to tell me bout a  _ sweater, _ ’Ziraphale?”

“Ah. Just making conversation.”

“There is no conversation!” Crowley shouted suddenly, springing to his feet and sending a sharp zing of pain right to the angel’s sensitive temples. “You almost killed yourself! I might’ve never gotten you back! And over what?! Some bloody stupid birds?!”

“It w-was an accident, Crowley.” Aziraphale was far too worn to keep the wobble out of his voice, or help the hot prickle of moisture that sprung into the corners of his eyes. “A foolish miscalculation. One I’m very sorry for.” He tried to keep hold of Crowley’s broiling stare through the dark room, tried to show him the sincerity of his remorse. He felt a stray tear beading up and leaking down to the tip of his nose. “I-I-I truly didn’t mean to burden you, my dear.”

For a minute, the only sound to be heard was the pattering of rain on the roof. His husband’s gangling silhouette remained stiff with shoulders taut for a long, high-pitched moment, before dropping as though cut free from marionette strings. The bottle in his hand clank to the floor, completely full. 

When he spoke again, his voice was threadbare. “Oh,  _ angel.” _

Aziraphale scrubbed the dampness from his face and watched warily as Crowley rounded the bed. He could not bear anymore scolding, and he’d been humiliated quite enough for one evening, but the smooth motion of Crowley’s approach was decidedly more gentle than anticipated. He loomed over Aziraphale for a moment, his expression stern and unreadable.

“I know. I was being ridiculous,” said the angel, chewing the inside of his cheek. “But the little dears just looked so helpless up there, and I thought if I could- if I could just  _ catch _ them-” 

_ “Shhh,”  _ interrupted Crowley. “No more of that.” And he slunk onto the mattress, sidling up, catching Aziraphale’s face between long, cool hands. “M’sorry I yelled at you,” he said, almost against the angel’s lips. “I am. You can cane me good for it later, when you’re feeling better.”

Aziraphale snorted wetly and tried not to smile. “Really now.”

“I mean it, angel. You can throw me over your writing desk and knock some sense back into me.” Crowley pressed three staccato kisses against his nose with alcohol-damp lips.

“You positively reek of whisky. And… is that coffee?” Aziraphale sniffed at Crowley’s shirt, noticing how sticky it was to the touch. 

“Oi! At least you’re here to smell me.” A congested sound that barely passed for a laugh escaped Crowley’s throat. “For a minute there, I thought you- _ gugh.” _ He swallowed. “Well. Needless to say, I went a bit out of my head.”

“There, there, old chap,” said Aziraphale poshly. “It all turned out in the end, didn’t it? And the birds, I presume, are being included in that sentiment…” He lifted a skeptical brow.

Crowley huffed, flopping onto his back. “Yes, they’re fine, the ungrateful lot of them. And so is your sweater, now that we’re on the topic of ingrates.”

“It is really?” Aziraphale grinned. Crowley snapped his fingers and proved it.

“Eh? How’s that for being impaled in, angel?”

He looked down at himself, and naturally, the butter-colored cable knit sweater he’d been wearing around the house these past few months had returned from whatever state of ruin it had been in before to hug his body precisely as he liked it to. Crowley had recreated every stitch just so, and Aziraphale had never been so in love.

“It’s marvelous, Crowley. Everything is simply marvelous,” he sighed, pushing his forehead into his husband’s collar. “Thank you, my love. For everything.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley griped, settling in closer and closing his eyes. “Don’t get too used to it because next time I’ll be leaving you for the buzzards.”

“Hm.”

“I mean it,” he said, “so you’d better not do anything even  _ half _ that stupid ever again. Now go to sleep. You probably need it almost as much as I do right now.”

“Almost,” Aziraphale teased.

“Yes, almost,” Crowley yawned. “Goodnight, angel.”

“Goodnight, dear. And sweet dreams.”

“Yes, angel. Sweet dreams.”

Aziraphale allowed himself to melt against the slender arms that held him, his eyes falling shut under the weight of the exhaustion that his day had put him through, and he fell asleep- a sleep perchance to dream the sweet dreams Crowley had just been so kind as to wish him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A black coffee with cinnamon is the most demonic drink I could think of. Crowley would enjoy it thoroughly.


	4. Parasomnias

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley starts his day very very pleasantly, and ends his day with a little more perspective on both himself and his angel. TW: sexual content and nightmares!

Crowley came, hissing and groaning. His fingers sunk hard into the dough of Aziraphale’s waist and he watched, mesmerized, as the angel reached his own peak straddling Crowley’s lap. The delicious weight on top of him, the sweet wind down, the great, fluttering contractions around him that accompanied each slowing roll of Aziraphale’s hips; it was surreal, sticky-sweet, and all becoming too much to bear. Aziraphale was a beauty to watch in action. A buxom, glistening gift from Above. He was the very reason Rubens ever picked up a paintbrush, and Crowley could watch him bliss himself out like this all day, if it weren’t for the sting. 

_ “Ssss, _ ah- Ah!” Crowley shouted, hoisting Aziraphale by the his bottom, (the cutest, plumpest thing in England,) and setting him still. He was smiling a smile up at him that he knew must’ve looked as dopy and un-demonic as he’d ever done, a smile he’d never own up to once he was back in his snakeskin boots. “Well! Good morning to you, too.”

“Mmm, good morning, dear,” Aziraphale replied, his eyelids drooped in mellow pleasure as sweat-dampened fingertips began to slide up and down Crowley’s oversensitive chest. “That was just lovely.”

“Yes, it was,” he agreed in a tone as wry as he could make while his hands had the privilege to roam between the angel’s soft thighs and backside. “Might I ask what the, uh,  _ occasion  _ is?”

Aziraphale straightened up, and a funny look passed over his face for a moment. He gently unseated himself, drawing a pained little noises from them both, then wriggled into the space under Crowley’s arm. Yes, it left his lowers cold and slimy, and it was a shame to lose the view, but Aziraphale did smell quite good this close. Like starched cotton and that old-fashioned lavender soap he liked. Crowley poked his nose into his hair to get a better breath of it, but Aziraphale pulled back.

“I didn’t think I needed an occasion,” he murmured, upturned brows silently asking if he’d committed some sort of social faux pas. This sex business was fairly new to the both of them but, as with most things, Aziraphale was particularly out of the loop. He was probably wondering if one was only supposed to cowgirl their spouse into the mattress at four a.m. during lent or something.

“Oh, no no,” Crowley soothed, squeezing him close. “You don’t. You can- you can do  _ that  _ anytime you fancy. I was just curious what came over you this early in the morning. Been cracking open the Robert Burns verses again?”

Crowley combed a snow-blond sideburn with his fingernail and Aziraphale’s lips pursed indignantly. “You like Burns just as well as I do.”

“Ye-es.  _ My love is like a red, red rose, _ and all that jazz.”

“Well aren’t you romantic?” Aziraphale said sarcastically. 

“Only for you, darling,” answered Crowley with equal derision. They looked at each other a moment, dwelling in the easy mirth that always came with their banter. The angel’s eyes were positively gleaming with affection in the muted light peeking through the curtains, and Crowley knew his own must’ve looked like chalices fit to overflow.

When his lips found Aziraphale’s there was nothing sarcastic about it. Millennia of fruitless wanting, ends unbound, and dreams stowed away had left his mouth forever filled with an oily, lingering sort of bitterness that only seemed to sweeten upon the angel’s kiss.

Aziraphale’s warm, wide palms held Crowley’s cheeks in place, and his lower lip fit so nicely between the edges of the demon’s teeth; an excellent reminder that they could have this now. That he and Aziraphale could spend a morning under the same blanket without worry. That somehow, against all odds and expectations, an angel and a demon could be  _ happy  _ together. 

When Crowley pulled away it was solely for the sake of kissing Aziraphale again, for at that moment, the start of a new kiss was the only imaginable thing worth pulling away from him for. 

_______________

  
  


Breakfast today would be good ol’ jam on toast, apparently. Crowley sipped his black and cinnamon coffee from his black and cinnamon mug and sat back in a kitchen chair, watching Aziraphale do his thing. There was a hole in his sock that hadn’t been there when he’d put it on the night before, (which was bugging him,) and it was far too early to be conscious in Crowley’s (completely correct) opinion, but the surprise wake-up sex seemed to have left him feeling as invigorated as it did… confused.

Aziraphale had always been a bit like a calculator with too many feelings- and hey, that was what Crowley loved about him! He was brilliant in a way that most sentient creatures couldn’t fathom, and he sometimes got so caught up in his own decision-making that it drove him to distraction. While Crowley was personally more of a ‘wing it and see what happens’ type, Aziraphale was a weigher. A pros and cons lister. Someone who thrived on deliberation and predictability. Whenever an opportunity for something fun and spur-of-the-moment appeared on the horizon for the angel, it gave him a panic attack.

Welcome as it may have been, the last thing Crowley expected from that angel was to be yanked out of a sound sleep with urgent kisses and desperate hands at the ass-crack of dawn without signing some sort of notarized consent form, or at very least  _ discussing _ it first. The fact that it had happened, truly happened, just hours ago was actually quite worrying, the more he thought about it.

Crowley carefully observed Aziraphale as he set two plates of toast, a local newspaper (he had quit the Celestial Observer) and an ivory teapot on the tabletop, then turned to grab the jar of peach preserves from the fridge. He was humming a happy little ragtime tune and nothing seemed at all amiss with him, but still, Crowley couldn’t help ruminating on it all through their quiet breakfast, flicking at the irritating hole in his sock with his toe.

“Did you hear that the duck pond has been having an algae problem?” said Aziraphale at one point, pulling him from his reverie. He slid the paper over and Crowley pretended to read it. “You see? The water’s so thick with it that the fish are dying, and the ducks are being left with very little to eat.”

“Serves ’em right,” Crowley mumbled to the rim of his mug.

“Perhaps we’ll pay a visit later. Throw them all a blessing or two.”

“Or none. Always an option, that.”

“Crowley.”

“Fine. But I’m not helping!” he asserted before Aziraphale could interrupt. “Now, I don’t mind everyone and their mother knowing I’ve gone native, but I’ll be absolutely risen if someone Downstairs finds out I’ve been fixing the ecosystems of  _ duck ponds.” _

Aziraphale’s answering smile was just a hair too smug to pass for being angelic, and he folded his newspaper back up with a pleased little shimmy. “Delightful, then. We have plans.” He reached over and poked the edge of Crowley’s plate before he stood from the table, saying “finish your toast, my love.”

_ (His  _ love _. That’s me. Can’t forget that I’m his love. Maybe that’s why this morning he-) _

Crowley glanced down at his untouched breakfast, mended his sock with half a thought, and frowned.

_________

Despite Crowley’s determination to make it otherwise, they ended up having a wonderful day. An almost idealistically wonderful day, actually. The type of day that newly-single people pretended to have on social media. Birds chirped, hands were held, and ducks paddled to and fro atop a glassy (and miraculously clean) pond. The mid-spring wind was biting, but the buttery sunshine rising overhead soothed it some, and by two in the afternoon, it became just warm enough outside to stop for a late lunch somewhere with patio seating.

The ride home was nice and companiably quiet. Aziraphale’s cheeks and nose were still pink from the cold, and his lips were a rosebud, round and flushed. He was strawberries and cream, precious beyond compare, and Crowley was so in love with him it was all he could do to keep from pulling over for a snog. Once they passed the cottage gates, Crowley parked, then hurried to round the Bentley and open the angel’s door like a proper gentleman. He even went as far as to take his arm on their way up the walk. 

Aziraphale tossed a glance at him in a manner that could only be described as coquettish. Was it really just a handful of months ago that Crowley scorned himself, knowing he would do damn near  _ anything _ if it meant the angel would give him that look? And knowing that God was probably up there, doing everything in Her power to make it difficult for him? And now, Crowley got to see that very look every single day, free of charge.

Well, maybe the ol’ conniver still had some mercy left in Her after all.

He slithered off to the wine cellar the moment they crossed the threshold in hopes of finding a specific red vintage with a pretentious name that he knew the angel felt particularly sentimental towards. He found the closest thing to it, and headed back up to where Aziraphale was stowing some leftovers in the fridge. Reaching over his head for their finest crystal wine glasses, Crowley made a bit of a show out of pouring drinks for them both. Aziraphale watched him with a teasing glint in his eye.

“I must say, Crowley, it’s very pleasing to see you in such high spirits.”

“Ehh, it’s been a high-spirits type of day. Couldn’t be helped,” Crowley replied, keeping his tone impassive. He didn’t want to answer with too much enthusiasm, (it would ruin their little game,) but he also didn’t shy his expression away from Aziraphale, which he knew must’ve been dripping with fondness. He held a half-full glass out for the angel’s taking.

“Yes,” agreed Aziraphale, snagging the glass and pivoting on heel towards the loveseat. Crowley ogled that cute bottom of his unabashedly as he continued, “and a productive one too! I admit I’d been feeling a tad idle these past few weeks, but today was the perfect remedy for it. Won’t you come sit?”

“Enjoying the view from here, actually.”

_ “Snake.” _

Crowley cackled as he carried both his own wine glass and the whole rest of the bottle over to the coffee table, as it appeared that tonight they would be drinking their dinner. 

_______

Two bottles of red, one comically large bottle of white, and several pints of amber ale steadily disappeared throughout the remainder of the evening and well into the night. Aziraphale’s hair was a flurry and at some point he lost a shoe, and Crowley ended up finding it under the refrigerator. Around midnight Crowley asked if it would be a good idea for him to venture out and score some pot, and the angel scolded him, but did not say no. He didn’t end up doing it, but he did make sure to write that little detail down in the notes of his phone for his sober self to appreciate later. 

The ale had eventually run its course, and Crowley and Aziraphale stumbled back down into the wine cellar to pick out what would supposedly be their last drink of the night. Crowley was a good deal too sober what with the pathetic alcohol content of the ale, and he used that as grounds to beg the angel to pick them out something strong enough to kill an elephant.

“Let’s geddout the shiraz- no, the port!” he suggested enthusiastically. “I could reeeeally do with getting knocked for the rest of the week.”

“No, no!” Aziraphale whined. “That’s the last thing I need! It’s hard enough dealing with you at night alone. I can’t imagine putting up with you all day and night for an entire week.”

_ “Psssh- _ put up with me? I’ll be asleep! Not putting up with me is the whole- well, that’s the whole point of it, innit?”

Aziraphale’s mouth twisted sideways in an odd grimace. He delicately stepped away, going deeper into the tunnel of bottles and reaching up to pull a dangly chain that belonged to the ceiling lamp. It took a moment for Crowley’s eyes to adjust to the harshness of its light.

“An’ then,” he went on, squinting in the angel’s direction, “then, after I’ve had my nap, maybe you could wake me up again. The nice way. You know. If that’s a thing you like to do these days. I wouldn’t mind.”

“If that’s a thing _ I  _ do?” Aziraphale scoffed. “You are mistaken, my love. Our goings-on this morning were entirely initiated by you.”

“Ohhh, come on now, angel,” Crowley crooned, stumbling nearer. “We both know that’s not true. Just admit that I can tempt you better in my sleep than anyone else can wide awake, and we can leave it at that.”

Aziraphale pulled a thin bottle from the sherry shelf and inspected its label, shaking his head. “I won’t argue with you there, dearest,” he said, “but it remains. This morning was most definitely one of yours.”

“How is that even possible? It was you who woke  _ me.” _

“Yes, I did. But it wasn’t for the purpose of- of bedeviling you!”

_ “Bedeviling  _ me? Now that doesn’t even make any sen-”

“You know what I mean.”

Crowley barked a laugh. “Why on Earth did you wake me up then? Hardly four in the morning, up I wake, and there you are, with all the kissing, and the touching, and the bedeviling, and the  _ oooh, Crowley.”  _

“I absolutely do not sound like that,” Aziraphale pouted, scandalized.

“You do, but that’s not the point. My point is, what exactly were you doing ravishing me awake at four in the morning if not for a shag, hm?”

The angel’s pursed lips fell open in an angry intake of breath, and Crowley gleefully anticipated the thorough talking-to he was about to receive. But then, the tongue lashing, most disappointingly, did not come. Aziraphale’s eyes fell to the bottle in his grip. His throat bobbed. Suddenly, Crowley was taken back, back to when he was sober as a stone up at the kitchen table, watching the sun rise through their dusty window, and worrying what had gotten into his sweet angel. Wondering if he should be concerned. 

The soured look on his husband’s face at the moment suggested that perhaps the answer was yes.

“What,” said Crowley slowly, soberly. “What are you not telling me.”

Aziraphale’s gaze darted away, hands flexing and unflexing around the bottle’s neck, knuckles dimpling. “It, ah, really isn’t important.”

_ “What  _ isn’t? Aziraphale, what the deuce could’ve happened?”

The angel puffed up to his tip toes, then deflated again. “You see, I-I- I was merely going up to check on you,” he said. “This morning, I mean. Because- because sometimes it’s necessary.”

Crowley seriously doubted that, considering his bed was just a squat staircase away from the rest of the house, but arguing about that would get him nowhere. “Go on,” he goaded when the angel’s mouth sealed, as though that was all he was planning to say. Aziraphale turned to gingerly slide the bottle back into its place, then turned back to face him once more with a little crease between his brows that had not been there before. 

“You must know.” His voice was stark, his face curdling in the too-white fluorescent light of the overhead lamp. “Surely, you must have  _ some _ idea of why I might’ve roused you.”

Crowley replied as a demon without an answer ought, and stared unblinkingly at him for far too long. 

“Darling,” Aziraphale said, “do you truly not recall your, ah… parasomnias?”

“My pair of  _ whats?” _

“Your nightmares!” cried the angel. “The dreadful, howling nightmares you seem to have almost every time you sleep!”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Crowley lifted a weak finger of protest into the air. “Hold on now-”

“You writhe and shriek and call for me,” Aziraphale went on, his voice hot and impatient, “and set things on fire, and scarcely can I settle you without some form of affectionate touch or another. I have to practically dandle you back to sleep!”

Embarrassment. A great boiling heap of it rolled over Crowley like a tide, remembering the odd hole burned through his sock, remembering how he often rose with more blankets than he’d fallen asleep with. How long had this been happening? How long had Aziraphale been putting up with it? His fingers tangled hard into his own hair. “Hu- wa-  _ why _ didn’t you tell me?!”

“Well I thought you knew! You’re a demon for heaven’s sake. I guess I figured that bad dreams were simply part of the appeal of sleeping for you or- or something.” Aziraphale’s chin disappeared into his neck in a guilty bow of his head. “You seem to have such a passion for it, and I do hate to interfere with your hobbies, Crowley. But you must understand, all that racket this morning was growing quite bothersome to say the least.”

“So. All that petting. You weren’t trying to…”

“No,” Aziraphale frowned. “No, that wasn’t my intention. But then you woke up, and well. We each got our fill. So, er, there really is no need…”

“To dwell on it, yeah,” Crowley finished for him, and they both looked to the floor. “Do you, uhm. Would you like if I stopped taking the naps? I don’t really need them, and if it really works on you that much-”

“No! No, no. I could never ask you to do that. And in any case, it’s always rather nice for one to feel,” the angel cleared his throat, “needed.”

The playing field evened, and Crowley could feel the ashamed flush in his ears receding somewhat as it did. “Always need you, angel,” he replied gently, reaching out to still Aziraphale’s fidgeting hands. “Think I’d have lost my wits a long time ago if you hadn’t been here. I’d probably go around on a little white bicycle. And wear a rat tail. And braid it.”

“Oh Lord,” the angel’s eyes widened. “No, we can’t have that.”

Crowley’s thumb swiped over the warm, plump edges of the angel’s fingertips, and they laughed.

____________

“Mrr…  _ Nnnnnn-  _ guh. ’Ziraphale!”

Aziraphale sighed a long, almost maternal-sounding sigh as he placed his paperback of Robert Burns verses face down on the coffee table. It was not a first edition, but it was a well-loved copy nonetheless, and he made sure to set it down with due carefulness. His winged cocoa mug landed in place beside it to serve as its guardian angel, and Aziraphale marched to the kitchen for the fire extinguisher that lived in the cubby beneath the sink.

“They ate him! The snails, the  _ snails!” _ Crowley’s voice howled, muffled and wet, up from behind their bedroom door.  _ “Rrrrr-  _ he’s gone.”

“I was certainly not eaten by snails!” called the angel sternly as he climbed the stairs.

“Ohh, my  _ angel-” _

“Shhh. That’s enough now.”

“The snails-”

“They’re gone. On holiday.”

“Aw, your books… M’sorry… All wet.”

“I have a blow dryer. We’ll be tip-top in a day or so.”

“Mh.”

Aziraphale kissed at Crowley’s hairline until the shivering stopped, and simply thanked his lucky stars that this time, the snails were not aflame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just.... not sure where I was going with that one but... it went, nonetheless.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I've ever posted here, and the first thing I've posted at all in years- so be gentle with me please lol.


End file.
